French tanks have six gears; they are all reverse

Paradoxically, though, France is "home to Earth's entire population of 62.7 million people, every single one of the planet's 427 cities, and all of its history, culture, and beauty, and France is the only country in the World.

Located directly in the center of the universe around which everything else evolves, the nation of France is the sole beacon of life and civilization in an otherwise empty void. Stretching from the globe's southermost point in Marseille to its northern tip in Paris, and extending all the way to the Far East, or Dijon, France is known troughout France for its streets, buildings, wine, and food, things that simply don't exist anywhere else.

The French have produced every great achievement in every field of endeavor in the history of mankind, including the sculptures of Michelangelo, the symphonies of Beethoven, and the writings of William Shakespeare. Today, this birthplace of art, aviation, democracy, coffee, man, Buddhism, socialism, raggae, John Wayne, pasta, karate, the American Revolution, arrogance, space exploration, the Nile River, and everything else that has ever come to pass, has earned its place as the finest, greatest, and best nation in all of France." (Source: Can't remember, sorry)

Amen.

Those fuckin' Brits

There’s this thing with British people. They are ugly. Tremendously ugly. And they speak with a funny fucked-up accent. I was blessed with such incredible wisdom while I was on a two hour correspondence at the airport of London Heathrow.

It struck me at the very moment I exited the plane. There were a few samples already at the gate's doors, and I thought “Uh, that’s tough” but as I progressed through the terminal, the occurrence of bad looking people didn’t decrease – at all. Brits are cheesy white people who turn bloody red under the sun. They have crooked or fat noses, small lips, and frog eyes. Female examples of that peculiar people dress like hookers and walk like prisoners. Their really, really fat bodies are squeezed into tiny skirts and too short tops – very much like German blood sausages.
But who could possibly blame them? They live on an island with nothing of interest whatsoever. Their queen is old and stubborn, their food is disgusting, fried to the limit and wrapped into newspaper, their humor is ordinary. They have truly, truly shitty weather. And, once more, they remain the ugliest people I have seen so far.
So why, for God’s sake, would anyone want to live on that fucked-up island? I have to admit, though, that I didn’t exactly cross the British border. The airport is as far as I went into the UK. But who could possibly blame me? After what I’ve seen at the airport, it would take an entire battalion to drag me outta there.

Tucker Max: Quote of an asshole

"Two girls call me close-minded. I tell them that they are so open-minded that their brains leaked out."

www.tuckermax.com

In Defence of fuckin' Cursing

The woman who's sitting close by while I'm editing this post is fuckin' bothering me. She keeps on talking and talking about her husband's shitty job at an accounting firm and the bullshit she's doing at the divinity school. Yark. And that jerk who's sitting with her listens quietly while I pull the trigger in my mind and shoot her a goddamn bullet in the head.
But let's not waste our precious time on that gal's trivialities. She's fat and ugly. And she looks like a goddamn horse. The introduction to this post is merely an illustration of the appropriate use of cuss words. I was indeed very touched (to say the least) by a recent article written in defense of cursing.
The troubling thing, according to the author, is that even the hardest hitting magazines draw back to censorship to get rid of such basic words as "fuck" and "shit". Even though they are commonly accepted and understood adjectives of the English language, an increasing number of media stay clear of their use. Talking about Darfur or Tibet, the use of the ford "fuckin'" to underlie the extent of the mess would not be usurpating the language. Nor would a "mothafucker" be inappropriate when one comes to describe Mugabe. Right? So why shall we, for God's fuckin' sake, work around those words when their use is so clearly fuckin' appropriate?
I have another exemple of a current life situation where a nicely placed curse might have releaved much of the tension. Things went a lil' bit sour with my girl yesterday. There, a "fuck, fuck, fuck" would have done a pretty awesome fuckin' job.
The author's "favorite example of prudery has to be when Men's Health — a magazine read entirely by people with penises — quoted Robin Williams explaining how to save a stand-up routine. If all else fails, he said, "go for the d—- joke." Can you believe that? A men's magazine afraid of the word dick." I cannot agree more with that statement. Goddamn it, we are dicks and jerks, so let's be candid about it, for once. I don't want to read an article about my fuckin' dick without the words "fuckin' awesome" used together.
So the author has elaborated a set of rules for the appropriate use of our language's most basic adjectives: "For instance, shit is an all-purpose word [you] should use [...] when failing an exam or watching a favorite team cost you $20 by blowing a huge lead. However, if you use lose more than $20, that's a fuck. If you're dealing with the IRS, that might be a shit or a fuck, depending on who did your taxes; if you're dealing with the FBI or ATF, that's always a fuck. Among other cuss words, asshole is good for the boss or moron coworkers or in-laws, but motherfucker should be reserved for more weighty situations, such as when a mugger shoots you even after you give him your wallet, or you realize you're slipping off the edge of the Grand Canyon as you back up for a family photo. I hear motherfucker invoked for the simplest of transgressions, such as a foul during a basketball game. No, no, no! "Fuck you" will suffice, or maybe "What the hell?" Motherfucker is a fairly serious accusation."


To read the article on Chiprowe: http://www.chiprowe.com/articles/swear.html

Homer Simpson and the embarrassing truth about Education

"How is education supposed to make me feel smarter? Besides, every time I learn something new, it pushes some old stuff out of my brain. Remember when I took that home winemaking course, and I forgot how to drive?" Homer Simpson

Love in the time of Darwinism

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The Great Sexual Divide

There's no common language whatsoever between men and women. And there's no dictionnary out there. No translator that could do the work. We are, and will always be, misunderstood. Both men and women. There's no way to bridge the gap, no miracle solution to this eternal conundrum. From the time we lived in caves men have been pondering the question of WTF women want. And no one ever found an answer. Sadly. Oddly. Or maybe luckily.

Because, let's be honest, do we really want to know what in hell women want? Do we really want to go inside their heads and try to figure out what the fuzz is all about? No, the puzzle is better with its pieces wildly apart, because what we might find in there could very well get us nuts. Literally. While "female insecurity [is] the gift that keeps on giving,” (Tucker Max), men ignorance seems to be the bone of the new age, with men dating more women than ever before. The unexpected colleterals, however, are considerable with more women ending up single, feeling the urge to pump up their boops with silicon the way princess Barby does.

Nonetheless, in an infinite effort to find a framework men and women could work on, American's have divised a pretty suffocating idea of courtship: the dating path. It's some sort of raw patchwork of rules and procedures on how to ask a woman out. Here's an exhaustive (and non chronological) list of precepts:

* The guy needs to call for a date - there's no such thing as a goddamn equal footing
* He should give another call within three days, but not before 48 hours have past, if he has any interest for another date
* He should pick her up - which seriously sucks with the increasing gas prices
* He will bring her to (a) a movie (cheap, insecure guy), (b) a bar (if you just can't find a conversation and might want to get a back-up in case your date backfires), or (c) a restaurant (for more confident brainiacs)
* He's supposed to know where to bring the girl - and he's supposed to know WTF he's supposed to do with the next 40 years of his life
* He's supposed to know WTF she wants
* Dude, you got to pick up the fuckin' check on the first date

As Kay S. Hymowitz nicely stated, as "the old dating and courting regime fell, it left a cultural vacuum with no rules for taming or shaming the boors, jerks, and assholes."

What do men want: for the slutty, the lonely, the ugly.

Ever wondered who the guys are, and what they want? Well, it's not all that complicate. If you go to the zoo and watch apes playing (or mating), you will soon understand what's behind our behavior. Nothing. We don't have such a thing as schemes or strategies. We don't make plans for dinner, let alone for life. We like boops and would say anything to spend the night with them... except confessing how we really feel. Because if we look inside, deep inside ourselves, we never find much. And this is fuckin' scary.
But let me just throw down a few characteristics of the modern ape... I meant man. He's a fast-food eating jerk. Basically. And that pretty much says it all. He's goddamn horny and sex-driven, and uses alcohol to fight his inhibitions. His neanderthal-like manners just hide his absolute and insane fear of commitment. Like something that might be, to you girls, like a very big and infinitely deep hole. You don't want to jump in there, 'cause you never know whether there are not a bunch of really hungry chacals down there. That's how relationships feel to us.
Another thing is that "you're cool because you don't give a shit". That's our motto, that's the way we behave when our bro's are around. So never, ever - you hear me - ever argue with a guy in public. He'll get nasty just to make a point - even if he doesn't mean it.
And on dates, girls, if you are not anything above a solid 8 on the hotness scale, you cannot afford to drive him ape-shit asking stupid questions. Keep them for yourself. A man will only go as far as he's sure to get decent sex. The better the sex, the merrier your questions. It's simple, basic arithmetics. Score high on his bedtime chart, and you can ask him pretty much anything, even to tender the fuckin' garbage. And as RelationShit nicely puts it: "PMS gives women carte blanche to act like bitches from hell, and yet nobody makes them over-ride their hormonal bullshit."

Excessive use of the words "goddamn" and "fuckin'", please beware sensible souls out there

I haven't elected to talk solely about girls on my goddamn blog. But as life goes, the things that eat up all my brainpower simply gets down to chicken-business. I purposely used the word chicken, not solely because my dead-like-brain couldn't spit out any more appropriate term, but more so because I'm in a shitty bad mood and would love to just throw chickenshit at anyone that dares to glance at me with a silly look.

Main reason for my tremendously inappropriate and drama-queen-like-craptitude is that I feel like I haven't learned anything with any of the women I have dated and mated in the past 27 years. Nothing whatsoever. Did you ever try to draw certitudes out of personal experience with the aim to become a fuckin' wise dude? I did. And it backfired. Assuming that any woman is like another is the first erroneous assumption. Like DNA, they are all different, and what's insane about them is that they might want the EXACT fucking opposite of what the preceding one expected. And if you don't deliver, you're an ass. So I got used to be an ass, but I thought there was nothing really wrong about it.
We all know of the stoneage old saying that women crave bad boys. Well, they do. But once they come to date the badass, they want him to become a goddamn sweetheart. They all the sudden hate your bike and expect you to take out the garbage. And that you don't forget about the flowers on goddamn Valentines (and don't ever, you hear me, EVER, try to tell a woman it's just a marketing gag).
So here's the thing. If you are a sweetie (a pussy, a sissy, your calling), you don't stand a chance against the dude that walks right up to her in a bar and braces himself with craptitude. Not a SINGLE ounce of chance. That's why I became an asshole myself. Did I have any other goddamn option? Certainly I did, but daaah, I wouldn't write that blog today, and I'd probably be a 27 year old virgin.
So I braced myself in craptitude, too. But hoho, the girls all thought that by kissing the frog, they'd find herself in presence of a prince. But the badass was now what society wanted him to be. A badass. You can't have it both ways, girls.

But then, again, I met that "crazy-shit-that-girl-rocks" kind of woman. And then again, I thought "fuck you society", I gone be the prince, not the frog.

Theory of the 9: Systemic risk undermines Courtship

My "Theory of the 9" (see previous posts) is very much like the financial crisis. What we refer to as a systemic risk in finance is what would result out of the failure of one major institution. If a bank came to collapse, it would certainly - like in a domino effect - drag down several other banks, leading to the potential collapse of the entire market. This is due to interlinkages of market participants: one bank has enormous deposits or collaterals with another institution, and thus, when one fails to reimburse, it seriously undermines the capital base of its counterparts.

Anyway, so the basic idea is that the failure of a single entity could potentially bring down the entire system. The same happens to my theory: when one assumption is invalidated, the others collapse under pressure.
Before I move on, though, lets quickly summarize what we know:
* The "Theory of the 9" basically says that a girl we would consider to be particularly desirable (thus, a 9 on a scale of 10) can't be dated the traditional way - she has to be courted. The first assumption is that if you are anything less than a 9 yourself, lets say a 7, then you can't expect her to go on a date with you if you haven't created an initial interest. She simply will see no reason in wasting her time, and she'll most certainly turn you down.
* A recent update of the theory added the assumption that a 9 never hits the market (i.e. she always is in a relationship.) Before she even breaks up, any guy who has sufficient insider information on the upcoming event will prepare to make a move on that girl, and grab her as soon as she gave her boy the "good bye". The second fundamental assumption of the Theory thus states that if you want to get a 9, you certainly have to court her pretty hardly, and in doing so obliterate the fact that she has a boyfriend (and hope that she eventually kisses the guy good-bye to date your very self).

Well, my very own experience in putting my theory at work has backshot - and this in a considerable fashion - thus leading me to question its validity. Of course, my experience is not statistically significant, but it raises some serious concerns.
The first blow came with mine realizing that, when I engaged in courtship, my very own feelings got involved, and thus undermined the machiavellity of the potential undertaking. Machiavellian because, as a friend would say, I went in there with an agenda, which compromises the very idea of friendship (in the initial stage) and love (at a later stage). Undermining, in turn, because feelings grew and lead to that very consideration of her interest taking precedence over mine. So I could not possibly push for her dating me while I am not sure whether this is the best possible alternative for her.
The second failure resulted of mine realizing that I could not possibly betray her trust. She came to entrust me with her secrets and desires, her aspirations and her dreams. How could I, then, possibly make a move on her while she trustes me as a friend? I can't. I'm not machiavellian enough - to be honest, I'm not machiavellian at all. Call me a sissy, but I simply won't do it. When I have her eyes resting on me, and all that trust that exists between the two of us being palpable, there is no escape then to give in.

The first failure - not being able to maintain the machiavellism of courtship - resulted in a trusting relationship (the second risk), and simply made the theory implode.

My "Theory of the 9s" is very obviously not flawless

I don't quite know what I should write about. I have nothing witty, nothing funny, nothing smart to say, just the urge to write SOMETHING, whatever that might be. It's like being hit by a bus, but it feels so much nicer... Whenever there's a really - I mean TREMENDOUSLY - great girl, I go completely nuts. I become unproductive, lack the most rudimentary attention, and am like totally unwilling to commit to anything else than maximizing the time I spend with her.

While I am sitting right next to her, I can't stop wondering what the hell took me so long to ask her out. Because now I am pretty much the stupid shithead, running out of time, counting the hours until mine having to leave the country. But hey, to my defense, I did at last ask her out... just a few fuckin' months too late: 'cause now, she gots another boy.
My fellow readers would certainly point to my theory about girls being in relationships and not really being so (see post "A 9 does never hit the market"). I have, however, in all my infinite wisdom, obliterated the role of friendship in that sickingly complex fuckin' conundrum (another fancy word). Because, indeed, when you are friends, you start to think about what is best for her, and not only how your own little person might maximize his interest. You think you don't want to hurt her (1) by having her make a decision, and (2) by having to decide between a relationship and, basically, a catastrophe resulting of mine feeling rejected. So I remain foolishly quiet, exasperated by my own inability.

So, to conclude, my "Theory of the 9s" has some serious flows I need to work out...

A 9 does never hit the market

I have no clue what the fuck she's talking about, but I just crave to share my space with that wonderful little person. She is hot, for one. (ii) She smells good. (iii) She laughs in a wonderful awkward way. (iv) I'd really love to get her into the sack.

But first things come first. Like so many other girls I'd more than willingly do a shitload of wild things with, she's in a relationship. It is not that I have a fixation on beautiful women that are in some kind of randomly fortituous relationship. The simple truth is that the good ones are taken. It's like for cars: Ferrari's are sold before they even get to the market, while on the other hand anyone can at any time find a nice little Chevy in a dealership. And don't give me the shit about market-equilibrium and supply-and-demand - there's just more supply than there is demand for normal-market-products, but the inverse is true for truly exceptional girls.

So if you want to get one, you have to amend the rules. I hear ya, I hear ya: You can't break up a relationship, dude, you'd be an arsehole all the way. Well, lemme give you my argument, and if you don't buy into it, you can still call me whatever way pleases you (including "sweet lil' honeyboy" if you are an 8 and up on the hottness scale).
The girl has the say. All the way and all the time - that's a universal truth. This is my argument. Stop bitching. If we hit on you, be pleased and say thank you. At any time, you can get rid of us with a nice lil "fuck you". But if the nana decides to break off and head out with another guy, it's all her decision. And why shouldn't she have the God-given right to decide what's better for her - you can't possibly deprive her of the wonderful little person that you are!

Sex is 15% real and 85% illusion

Just stumbled upon that quote in that insane book by Chuck Klosterman. And I thought about it. And I though about it. And... well, you'd guess, this was running 'round in my head like chickens with their fuckin' heads cut off.
This blows my fuckin' mind off. I mean, think about it: it would mean that sex is a big deception. No, wait, sex is THE big deception - something like the scam of the century. Everyone believes it to be awesome, like THE shit, but it's nothing more than "yeeeaaaahhhh, it was kinda okay".
I wouldn't pretend sex is crap - believe me, it is NOT, and I highly enjoy the meatly pleasures. But when you first spot that really hot chick that waggles her boobies all over your face, you think: "man, that ought to be a great mambo-mambo". And then you build up all those fantasies about her on top of yours, and you go insane with all those wild and censored images of her. And then, finally, after weeks and weeks of hard labor and of wearing her defenses down (see post about a "if you are a 7 looking for a solid 9"), you get her into the sack, well, right then, the 85% illusion jumps in. Because, even though it is great, it is just not THAT great.
You've build it up all the way in your head, bullshitting yourself about the perfection of her body and the awesomeness of the act - just to find out that reality is cruel, and cold, and bloodily shitty.

The Thing about Girls not Returning your Calls

She didn't call me yesterday. Nor did she call me today. Maybe she's been hit by a bus. Mybe she's been kidnapped by Aliens. Maybe she has some acute form of Amnesia. Those things happen.

I could throw that little piece of plastic one refers to as a phone right into the wall. Shit happens, too. But lets face it, she probably isn't worth it anyways (except if she's really been kidnapped by green monsters with one yellow eye right into their face). That's at least what I'm trying to convince myself of when I crawl the bars in search for a new soul mate - be it for a night (and I don't mean the ONE thing, but the other - you are smart enough, aren't you). Anyways. And it worked. Fuck, there's no such thing as a girl to forget a girl. It works miracle - at least for some sort of temporary cure. I think there's some form of Chinese medicine that works that way: if you have a pain somewhere, let's hit you really hard at some other place, and you'll forget about the former. Awesome, huh? Didn't try it on myself, though, but if anyone of my fellow readers is open-minded enough to serve as gimmi-pig, let me know.
World Peace.

[As seen on the Net]: Letter of the Year

This is an actual letter sent to the then DFAT Minster, The Hon Alexander Downer and the then Immigration, The Hon Minister Amanda Vanstone. The Government tried in desperation to censure the author, but got nowhere because every legal person who read it nearly wet themselves laughing! Please excuse the language contained within, but I suspect the author was somewhat upset? I'll let you decide!

Another happy customer of the Federal government. A fabulous characteristic of Australians is that we are far more direct and outspoken than others when dealing with the sort of elected wanker who wouldn't otherwise get the full drift of what they were trying to communicate. Below is one such wonderful communication...

------------------------------

Dear Mr. Minister,

I'm in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believe this. How is it that K-Mart has my address and telephone number, and knows that I bought a Television Set and Golf Clubs from them back in 1997, and yet, the Federal Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date. For Christ sakes, do you guys do this by hand?

My birth date you have in my Medicare information, and it is on all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 40 years. It is on my driver's licence, on the last eight passports I've ever had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed off the planes over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms that I've filled out every 5 years since 1966. Also..would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my mother's name is Audrey, my Father's name is Jack, and I'd be absolutely fucking astounded if that ever changed between now and when I drop dead!!!...

SHIT!

I apologize, Mr. Minister. But I'm really p*ssed off this morning. Between you an' me, I've had enough of all this bullshit! You send the application to my house, then you ask me for my fucking address!! What the hell is going on with your mob? Have you got a gang of mindless Neanderthal arseholes workin' there!

And another thing, look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? I can't even grow a beard for God's sakes. I just want to go to New Zealand and see my new granddaughter. (Yes, my son interbred with a Kiwi girl). And would someone please tell me, why would you give a shit whether I plan on visiting a farm in the next 15 days? If I ever got the urge to do something weird to a sheep or a horse, believe you me, I'd sure as hell not want to tell anyone!

Well, I have to go now, 'cause I have to go to the other end of the city, and get another fucking copy of my birth certificate, and to part with another $80 for the privilege of accessing MY OWN INFORMATION! Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot, to assist in the issuance of a new passport on the same day?? Nooooo... that'd be too fucking easy and makes far too much sense. You would much prefer to have us running all over the place like chickens with our fucking heads cut off, and then having to find some high society w**ker to confirm that it's really me in the goddamn photo! You know the photo..the one where we're not allowed to smile?! ...you fucking morons,

Signed - An Irate Australian Citizen.

P.S Remember what I said above about the picture, and getting someone in high-society to confirm that it's me? Well, my family has been in this country since before 1850! In 1856, one of my forefathers took up arms with Peter Lalor. (You do remember the Eureka Stockade!!)

I have also served in both the CMF and regular Army something over 30 years (I went to Vietnam in 1967), and still have high security clearances.I'm also a personal friend of the president of the RSL.. and Lt General Peter Cosgrove sends me a Christmas card each year.

However, your rules require that I have to get someone 'important' to verify who I am; You know.. someone like my doctor; WHO WAS BORN AND RAISED IN PAKISTAN!!!......a country where they either assassinate or hang their ex-Prime Ministers, and are suspended from the Commonwealth for not having the 'right sort of government.'

If you are a 7 looking for a solid 9, take that advice from a Frenchman

American's simply don't get the art of courtship. It isn't simply "a waste of time" as some see it, or "an outdated model" as others consider this peculiar art. Courtship, to put it into jargon that even the most culturally-ignorant dude will understand, is to get a solid 9 or 9.5 when you are nothing more than a basic 7.
Women, the ones you dream of but wouldn't dare to ask out, have no interest for a 7. None whatsoever. Forget about the girl next door, it is as much an Urban Legend as Diet Coke. It doesn't exist/doesn't work. If you want to shoot for a 9, for that really, really hot and smart and funny and sophisticated girl, you'll have to create an interest. And you'll most certainly have to start from scratch: it will take time and a tremendous amount of effort and creativity. Because let's be honest, she's not only way better looking than you are (i.e. she's two points higher on the hottness scale), but she also got tons of offers for dates - and turns them down in 95% of cases.

To increase your chances, you'll have to engage in subtle seduction. And please, the emphasis here is on "subtle". No "baby you are so hot tonight" (she knows that) or "I'm your man" (she knows it's just not that). You'll have to draw back on the good old clichés, from small attentions to bigger ones. It's all about showing her that you are really into her, that she's got all your attention, nothing less, and that you are willing to go to hell and back just to get a shot at her. It's all about creating a sparkle of interest, a certain "hmm, that guy must have something others don't". If you don't prove her she's worth your time and efforts, she'll turn you down in a second. And, as my grand'pa proudly did when he courted my grand'ma: you'll have her only by wearing her defenses down, little by little. That's how a seven shoots for an eleven.

We only get judged by what we do...

Well, fortunately, I'm not going to judge some of my friends on what they do, 'cause they mostly and miserably fail. I guess this is not a socially correct way of putting things, but hey, this is the way it is. I guess we can throw most people into the same basket labeled "way out", and cut the crap out of our facebook lists. True, I've got myself over 300 buddies on facebook, but for a Whooper, I should consider throwing many of them out. It's like firing them. We should have such a thing as to "fire friends". Something like a quick notice: you're defriended, you ass, and you should do so face to face, not book to book.

The days back in highschool

I've got a new friend. And she used to be a cheerleader. Now, we had no such thing in France: no football or basketball teams, and, unfortunately, no cheerleaders. I know this sounds terribly trivial - I might actually sound like a moron - that a 27 year old guy is all fascinated by the whole thing about hers being a cheerleader, but I can't do anything about it (and, as you'd guess, I don't fuckin' care what my fellow readers might think)...

Anyway, so she used to be a cheerleader. And everytime I see her, I can't do anything about it but imagine her in a tight red and gold outfit with pompoms and all and stretching her leg way up there and doing all the things cheerleaders do. Now, she's not only pretty (although that's very obviously what this is all about), but she'd kick your butt anytime, too. ANYWAY, the whole cheerleader thing is just insane!

In high school, we had pretty girls in little girly gangs that were hot and all (and they would RULE and all), but by no means did they had any tacit recognition as being THE crowd. From the little I know about American education, there's pretty much such a thing as THE crowd. So, when cheerleaders are in, then I'd guess that the pinnacle- the paroxysm, to use a fancy word - would be to date one. I was fortunate to date a really social girl back in '98 - but she didn't have the damn pompoms. Now I feel my education to be incomplete just because of that...

This makes me thing of Jennifer, which was THE girl back in HS. Legends were circulating on her account, and if we'd transpose our French highschool into an American version of it, I'd be pretty damn sure she would be the head-cheerleader (if such a thing exists). And all the guys would (and did) want to date her. I was looking her all the time way then in math class and imagining the wildest stuff - but hey, she was way up there, and as Wheatus would put it, I wouldn't have dared to ask her out for a Iron Maiden concert. After the Josephine disaster (see previous post, feb. 13), this is the second time that my fomer cowardly attitude led to a scandalous regret...

The friendship zone - How much myth?

How dangerous or treacherous is it really, the legend of the so-called "friendship zone". Is a thing called "love" lost, whenever you got too close to a person. Or can this very friendship blossom into nothing less than, well, a big red heart on a bed of roses.

Maybe I am using an overdose of bad-old-clichés, but, let's be candid, this is a recurring question all of us have been pondering for years. How to get through to a person - and discover whatever might be beneath layers and layers of social customs - if not become good and close friends. But then, if you hit upon something you really like, is there still time to pull back your friendship card and to court the one? Because she probably has become the only one, and no other distraction, no matter how attractive, can be any good substitute.

I use a lot of maybe's and other metaphers - but all I mean to say is: God damn it, would I have known before that she seems to be the one - I'd never, ever, would have played the friendship game. There's nothing like good old courting - but I guess it's too late, and now I have to use the subtle path of gauging how much I can or should put a friendship at risk to conquer her.

For now, there's absolutely no way I will go down another path, for I'm lacking courage to do so. The friendship seems to be too valuable - and I'm nothing less than lightyears away of a good "hey, how you doin', babe".

Why have a heart when a heart can be broken?

Josephine... Long, waivy dark hair, light blue eyes, blood red lips, and a shy smile that would make any one man loose his confidence. And I did have none whenever I crossed her path back then, in the good old days in high school.

Josephine, her very name still inspires the most compromising feelings. My first big love. An artist, a true one, with soul and body. And a body, she had one that would make me daydream whenever I would sit in a chemistry or math class, longing for her soft white skin. Okay, I'm getting dangerously off-track.

But hey, I was in love for nothing less than two years and dared to ask her out once - and once only - and all I got in return was a "maybe". My self-confidence back then was by no means sufficient to pull it through. So I backed off. And God knows how much I do regret it. Ten years later...

One evening, I went to a friend's party, and she would sit all by herself on a couch. I went to sit next to her, and without a word, took her hand into mine, and just smiled. Unfortunately, my then girlfriend would stop by, and I would head off with her. Probably the biggest mistake I ever made. I should have held her hand for the rest of my life, and things would have gone differently... maybe...

As life passes by...

What was incredibly depressing in my former life as an investment banker is that I could literally watch my life and my best years pass by, but as if enclosed in a golden cage, I couldn’t do anything about it. Quitting my job was like freeing myself from the chains of mercantile slavery, and finding my way back to the things that really matter in life. And those aren’t really complicated. I didn’t have to take a difficult path leading to a rewarding new career. All that was necessary was to walk into a bar and find a girl.

"America is a large, friendly dog in a very small room. Every time it wags its tail, it knocks over a chair."

Folks Southern Style

I've had two particularly interesting encounters in the past week with people I, as a French, would characterize as authentic Southern folks...
I drove to Home Depot on Saturday to buy giant plastic containers for my clothes. Shirts, jeans, socks, and other pieces of underwear have been lying around my room for weeks, and something needed to be done about that. There's no way I could have brought anyone home with such a gargantuan mess. To my defence, I live on campus, and university's have always been particularly greedy when allocating furniture for housing. This translates into scarce resources to hide the mess.
To cut the long story short, I've walked into the store, picked up half a dozen ugly grey boxes, paid my due, and within minutes was back on the parking lot. Now given the size of the tiny trunk of my Mustang, one could certainly think I haven't thought the purchase through. And you'd be damn right. Like a fool, I'd look at my Stang and wonder how in hell I would get those pieces of sh** back to campus.
I'd just stand there like a retarded dude, startled by my colossal dumbness, alternatively looking at my trunk and at the containers. Now one could see from a distance that there was no way any one container would fit into the trunk, let alone six. But as we all know, human stupidity is infinite. So I picked up the containers, and tried hard to stuff them right in there. I squeezed and cursed, but the trunk wouldn't get any bigger.
After some time, an eldery lady came along. You know, the kind of woman you'd see in TV ads for cookies. She must have been in her sixties, with white hair, and a massive stature. She looked at me for a second, smiled brightly, and with a good-natured voice said: "Sweet Heart, I see you run into some trouble here. Let me give you a hand." And there she went, throwing her handbag to the ground, grabbing the (really heavy) containers, and trying to shove them into the car. She wouldn't manage it any better than I did, but mind you she'd give up. She eventually had a look at my messy trunk, and with an even brighter smile she'd say something like: "Now there's really a lot of liquor in there." I would blush like a teenager. Eventually, she'd wink and tell me it's alright, "it's college time, darlin', have fun."
She grabbed the boxes once more, walked over to the passenger door, pulled it open, and after some squeezing, managed to get them on the rear seats. I'd turn pale, afraid she'd tear open my beautiful leather seats. With some satisfaction, she gave me a "there you are sweet heart", grabbed her bag, and walked away. Her husband had been patiently waiting in their truck, watching the whole scene with not much of amusement. Minutes after she took off, I'd still stand there, amazed and thankful for her helping hand, wondering how many months I would have waited on that same parking lot somewhere in France before anyone would have asked me if I might need some help.

A few days earlier, I've been for an interview at a local mentoring program for kids. There was that really nice lady asking me tons of questions about my past and my motivations. And, at some point in time, she raised the question of religion. 'Yey, there it comes,' I thought. "I've got none, ma'am." Mind you that was the wrong answer. She gave me that look - that gran'ma-cookie look - sincerly concerned. But she didn't voice any concern.
I was intrigued, though, and asked her if something was wrong. "No, there's nothing wrong honey, it's okay." I wouldn't let loose, though.
"I am fearing for your soul, she finally said. You are a good kid, but no matter how much good you do, if you don't accept Christ in your heart, you will not go to heaven." And off she went for a twenty minute discourse about heaven and hell, about her church and all the lovely people there. She did very well believe all she was saying, and she was genuinely concerned for my soul. I admired that woman for all the length and trouble she went through just to "save" a stranger's soul - my imminent dimise.

And there's a pretty little thing, waiting for the King

And I got one step closer in understanding one of the most intricate aspects of American culture: Dating.
There's a thing about American dating. We (the remaining part of the Northern hemnisphere, excluding Delaware, this is yours too) see it as an abstruse monstruosity of human egocentrism. It's kind of a myth we can't really believe in, but started to consider real since having first seen American Pie. Dating "à la American" is like a funny game you played with your cousins back when you were eight, the highlight of which was showing off your butt. But having grown older, wiser, and more potent, we just don't understand its workings any longer. Our American friends, though, seem to still practice it widely and with not much consideration for its collateral damages.
Let me be straightforward on what we believe to be the biggest gaming scandal in human history:
First and foremost, dating "Made in the US" is NOT exclusive. It's a no risk-diversification strategy. If you ask a dozen girls out, the chances you bring one home are proportionally higher. In business, we call such a bet "diversification": if one goes sour, you still have plenty of other opportunities waiting. That man accept this rule is no surprise (I am myself all excited about making use of it), but that women go for such a sex-bonanza is an oddity. I mean, you give us a blank check to make out and break away. Why should we stick around if we can get a cookie at every door we knock at?
Second, there is no commitment whatsoever. To use a friend's language, "you're just testing waters". The "no commitment rule" results in many dating pretty much anyone that meets a certin standard (another acquaintance admitted she's dating well below her ...). But not only that, if we don't have to commit to get where we want to go (and you very well know what I mean, you dirty little self), than why should we wait? And why should we stick around once we got it? And why put effort into it? I mean, who climbs the stairs if there's an elevator, huh? Girls, by requesting no commitment from the onset, you get none once you delivered!
From a French perspective, this form of dating is like a loophole in the men-women code of conduct. It's like a free lunch, better, like an all-time-free-lunch. Let me explain, once more. Forestalling risks lowers what I would call the "dare factor". "Dare you ask her out". "Do you have the guts". It takes much more courage to approach a woman when there is some form of commitment in it. Because you have to build an argument, a case, to defend your qualities as opposed to the ones of other mates. We call it seduction. You have to court her, sometimes over a longer period of time, before you ask her out. You minimize the risk of a "no" by taking more time and more care in preparing your "demand". It requires patience, ingenuity, patience, commitment to the task, patience, and a good portion of luck. But it is so much more rewarding when you finally got your "yes". And it is an indication of mutual interest, serious mutual interest. When you go on a date in France, exclusivity is a given for the entire length of the dating period. It is implied, mutually understood, a rule not to break. You therefore take more time to get to know the person of your covetousness.
Whatever system you prefer, it doesn't really matter. Because once you're in a country, you have to go by its rules, explicit or simply implied.
I have been asking tons of questions to figure out the rules of the game. And I'll further investigate the topic, and, of course, keep my fellow citizens updated on any progress I make. In the mean time, I might as well experiment with the system in real life. For the good of clarification, of course (I am such an altruist).

Curse, common', curse, you can do it!

I love this place, for its people are certainly among the nicest folks I have met so far. But too nice can get too much, too. Decoding the social behavior of people that are nice all the time, no matter what, can be quite a complex task - especially as a foreigner (a smart-panty-ass would call it a conundrum - a word I learned thanx to the funky GRE).
With the NC folk, you are clueless as to where you stand. "Buttface - Thank you Sir", ""Ratass - It is my pleasure". Whatever one says or does, they'll smile and kiss your butt. Sure thing, it's quite cool to be around seemingly happy folks - but they abuse my goddamn patience! For I'm a French, f*ck, and I like it that way, "merde alors". I curse, it's part of my cultural heritage, and I like to tell people "in your face" how I feel about them. Don't waste his Hollyness' precious time (the Hollyness in this context is your devoted author).
Now, I certainly do believe that natives have an inner compass, a sort of affinity to understand the nuances in the way people are being pleasant, but as a French, I do lack the most rudimentary skills in this art. For in my country, people who dislike you will make you feel so. The same accounts if you're appreciated; you won't have an ounce of doubt about that (take your hands off my girl friend's ass - this goes too far).
I guess it will take some time to develop this art, but I do hope it comes rather sooner than later. I mean, is this hot thing smiling at me because I'm so charmingly French - or would she even smile with mine having half an ounce of salad between my teeth?

No Car, No Life - Or a fool's journey to the pharmacy

The duck s*cks. We are in America man, and you're a fullblown man only once you own a car. Forgetting this very principle translates into immediate physical pain. And I felt it - right into my face. But to my defence, the distance looked tiny on GoogleMaps, just a few blocks.
Well, a few blocks it might have been, but those few blocks, my friend, taken off the map and down to the street, was clearly a distance equal to the one from the campus to the moon. No kidding. No joking. No nothing. 'Cause I certainly wasn't kidding when I realized how little progress I had made when I walked towards my destination (the Cargods are laughing right now - harhar, there's a human being stupid enough to walk in America).
But let me just go a few steps back. The reason for my sudden wandering in and around Durham county was very much down-to-earth. I needed some pain killers for my headache and wanted to find a pharmacy. A friend told me that I could get some around Hillsdale Rd (or something that very much sounded like Hillsdale). The assiduous observer would have noted the word "around". Because "around" here means a lot of things. Around is no problem when you have a car and can make turns and stuff lie that. Around, however, is a seriously different thing when you are WALKING - you know, the art of setting a foot in front of the other. Felt like some sick game out of a SAW movie. I mean seriously sick. Between two buildings here in industrial Durham are vaste noman's lands larger than Texas. So approximations are simply not acceptable.
Once I scribbled down the address, I checked out Google and took the campus transit as far off-campus limit as it would take me (which is not very far). From then on, I walked. And walked. And walked. It first took me to a highway junction, then below a bridge, and a further few miles in the wrong direction. And here the "around" comes into play. Because indeed, the pharmacy was "around" the said area, but a friendly passerby would eventually confess that I should have taken a left some one mile earlier. So back I went, back towards that highway junction and that big empty nothing, and that bridge to somewhere. The horizon was just crazy far away, and there was literally nothing between me and the horizon.
The odyssey ended three and a half hours later, at a bus stop that took me from the pharmacy... back to campus.
Below the picture-book of my odyssey:

The Smell. And the Light. This is the South.

The smell. And the light. That seems to set the South apart. Today was an extremly hot and humid day. The sun burned down on our souls forcing us to take refuge in the air-conditioned dorms at Duke. I took a walk at seven, went down to the stripmall to get something healthier to eat (quite a challenge over here), and, while I crossed the bridge that goes over the highway not far from where I live, I could smell the humidity that preceeds the summer rains. The hot asphalt seemed to be begging the pink sky for a shower, and so it came, half an hour later, pouring down on the Raleigh-Durham delta. I enjoyed the sight, the drops of fresh rainwater on the skin, and the cute girls running across the parking lot to find a dry shelter. Smiling at all of it, I realized how casual and easygoing this weekend was. Time passes by at another pace, not the one we ought to witness in NY, Paris or Francfort. Time seems to be a lavish good down here. I can take advantage of it without ever having to make the most of it.

The soul of the South?

[...] Touched down in the land of the delta blues, in the middle of a pouring rain [...] Yeah I got a first class ticket, but I'm as blue as a boy can be. Then I'm walking in Memphis, was walking with my feets ten feets off of Beale [...] Saw the ghost of Elvis, on Union Ave, followed him up to the gates of Graceland, and watched him walk right through [...] But there's a pretty little thing, waiting for the King, down in the Jungle room [...]

Here I am, finally, down in the south, heartland of the USA. I landed in Raleigh-Durham almost 14 days ago, and I can tell you, this has been an adventure! Bruce Springsteen and his "Walking in Memphis" was my shadow during these days, the time flying by, and mine witnessing everything around me with wide open eyes. .

The first time I saw North Carolina, it was through that tiny loophole of a window in a plane ten thousand feet above ground. What I could see, I can resume it in a single word: forest! All over the place. That green vegetation we city-lovers only rarely witness. So it was, at first, a frightening sight. I couldn't see any skyline, no big buildings, no lights whatsoever, no huge highways blocked by traffic jams. The same was confirmed over and over again as I drove with the cab from the tiny and pretty airport of RDU to Duke University, my host for the coming two years.
My good friend, Rossi, who was making the journey with me, was having a good time reminding me that I declined an offer to study at Columbia, at the heart of the most amazing city West of... well, everything.
But that feeling of lost-ness (??) was quickly replaced by a thunder of excitement once I discovered all those flush bars along the roads in close proximity to the campus. Bars and restaurants, plenty of them, very affordable and crowded by young folks.
My desire to escape the trivial temptations of the larger cities (and the even more oppressing career in finance) was well served in finding a place where time matters less, and where human interaction (that means bars and friends and girls) seem to matter more.
I love this place. As far as I can tell, life is smoother, more relaxed, more enjoyable in a place where you mean something to people, and where they mean something to you. This is so radically different from anything I experienced in Frankfurt in my days as financial investor that it came as the most pleasant surprise. Back there, in ole' Europe, relationships were a result of tight cost-benefit analysis and break-even considerations, where the break was more a calculation of the minimum wage a girl is expecting you to earn before she dare date you.
No one is quite interested in what your career path is, but rather in what motivates you - your passions, your aspirations. I can only hope this proves to be true!

Better not take your gun...

Even in America, there are places where guns are not welcome...

Moving solution for the lazy-ass

Have you ever been too lazy to pack your stuff into boxes when you thought about moving? Wanna leave North Carolina for Florida without the burden of dragging tables, chairs, TVs and other things with you? Well, then, here you go you lazy bump.